


Cops and Robbers

by UneJolieOrdure



Series: Reader Beware, You're In For a Scare [6]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gun Kink, Infidelity, Interrogation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Organized Crime, Past Drug Addiction, Police, Reader why are you like this, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Stop pulling weapons on your sex partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneJolieOrdure/pseuds/UneJolieOrdure
Summary: You are brought in for questioning.





	Cops and Robbers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of middle-ground between “Come on Down to Florida” and “All-American.” It’s got hella mob vibes because I watched like one episode of "Mob Wives." Some music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcVQJJoD45w  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gxLrDXTLJw 
> 
> I’d love to take requests for this series as well, if anyone has them. Just comment or shoot me a message.

Detective Jon Snow is young, hard to read, handsome in the way that statues are handsome. He sits across from you silently with his hands folded on the table. Between you are two coffees in Styrofoam cups and a manila folder opened to reveal a set of gruesome crime scene photos, which you are staunchly ignoring. 

“Well?” he finally says, leaning back in his chair. 

“Well what?” you shoot back, innocence personified. 

“Are you going to tell me what you know, or are you going to let your husband talk first and get the better deal with the prosecutor?” It’s a feeble attempt at manipulation. Ramsay would never breathe a word to a cop; he hates the police with a single-minded fury.

“Talk about what?” The patrol officer had caught you by surprise when he had rolled up to your house, so you’re wearing sweatpants and a pink camisole, a sweater hastily thrown on as you were heading out the door. He had knocked on the door and politely asked you to come down to the station to answer a few questions. Of course, you went along. There’s nothing more suspicious than refusing to cooperate with the police. It wasn't until you had arrived at the station that your current interrogator had informed you that your husband had been brought in as well. 

The detective leans forward and taps the crime scene photos hard with his index finger. You glance down quickly and catch sight of matted hair, a half-dried puddle of deep red blood.

“The murder of Theon Greyjoy.”

“I didn't know him very well,” you say with a shrug, folding your arms across your chest. “I think he did some business with Ramsay. That’s all. Why would I kill anybody?” You furrow your eyebrows. Most would be exasperated, but the detective seems unmoved.

“I don’t think you did. But I think you know something. Obstruction of justice is a crime. You could be charged as an accomplice.” If that’s supposed to frighten you, then he clearly knows nothing about career criminals. Anything with a sentence less than twenty years doesn't faze you.

“I don’t know anything.”

“What does your husband do, Mrs. Bolton?” He’s trying a different tack. As if you haven’t talked to the police before. He must be green; you’ve never seen him before, and he’s asking all the wrong questions.

“He’s a contractor,” you reply confidently. And he is, sort of. He does all the things a contractor does, but that’s not where his money comes from. His money comes from places the light of day never touches. 

“I know what his job is,” Snow says dismissively. “But what does he _do_?”

“Are you asking me what a contractor does, detective?” You raise your eyebrows. The man shakes his head, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“I suppose not. Can you wait here for just a moment?” You nod. While he's gone, you focus on a yellow water stain on the paneled ceiling, tracing it with your eyes again and again, bored out of your skull. When Snow finally comes back, he’s got another manila folder, which he tosses down in front of you.

“What is this?” you ask, suspicious.

“It’s your criminal record,” he replies, taking his seat again. “And your husband’s.”

“What do a couple of drug charges have to do with the murder of somebody I don’t even know?” But you do not open the folder. 

“Nothing,” he says nonchalantly. “I’m just saying that maybe you aren’t the Stepford wife you’re pretending to be in this interview, Mrs. Bolton.”

“I’m not pretending to be anything. We’ve all made mistakes. I’m two years sober this month, for your information. I have my NA chips if you’d like to see them,” you say wryly. This, at least, is true. When you were younger, you had been a hopeless junkie, but you’ve cleaned up your act. At least, in some respects.

“No. I believe you. I’m not interested in your past charges, anyway. What I’m really interested in is Mr. Bolton’s history. Money laundering, weapons, domestics…would you like to comment on any of that?”

“I’d just like to point out that he was never convicted of any of that, detective.” You sip your cup of cold coffee triumphantly. “And he didn’t kill anyone.”

“I’d like to know about this arrest in particular, Mrs. Bolton.” He opens the folder, shuffles some papers, and then points to a date. “On this occasion, it was your neighbors who called the police with a noise complaint. They heard screaming and banging going on for more than an hour next door.” Shit.

“Every couple fights, detective,” you say smoothly. “Are you married?”

“No."

“Then you don’t know how hard it is to make a marriage work.”

“According to this report, when the patrol officer responded, you were bleeding profusely from the head. Off the record, the officer said it looked like someone had tried to kill you.” He _had_ tried to kill you. You would have called the police yourself if he hadn't broken your phone. The memory of your temple ricocheting off the side of the kitchen counter is indelible, the enormous fissure of pain opening in your skull, that familiar dizzy, concussed feeling...

“Like I said. Marriage is hard.”

“Do you really want to throw away your life covering for a man who tried to kill you, ma’am?” He leans in, close. You can smell his cologne.

“Is it any of your business if I do?”

“To be frank, I’d call that a crying shame.”

“Are you coming onto me, detective?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Of course not.”

“Because my husband has a criminal record.” You wink. The detective does not smile.

“I’ll ask one more time, Mrs. Bolton. Did your husband participate in the murder of Theon Greyjoy?” You look him straight in the eye.

“No.” But of course, he did. 

He took Theon, one of his most fearful lackeys, out in his Mustang one day and came back alone. You didn’t ask questions. The less you know, the better. All you know is that the family says shoot, and Ramsay shoots. There are things that you just don't talk about, and this is one of them.

*

A change of clothes and a couple of hours later, you’re sitting in a hazy, amber-lighted bar, drinking alone, lulled by the sound of pool balls clacking and men muttering crime-world gossip to one another. You're surrounded by friends and associates, people who work for the same organization Ramsay works for, but it's still surprising when someone taps you on your shoulder. It's even more surprising that it's Detective Snow.

“This isn’t a cop bar,” you say skeptically, eyeing him up. It’s pretty obvious that he’s wearing a gun on his hip even though he’s in street clothes. This fool is going to get himself killed; it isn't exactly what you would call "undercover." “Run along.” You shoo him with your hands. 

“I will. In a minute.” He sits down on the bar stool beside yours.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Just a guess.” He lowers his voice, half-smiling. “This was the closest mob bar.”

“I resent your implication.” You toss back your drink. He really must be looking to die today.

“Save it. I’m off duty.”

“Isn’t this unethical?”

“Very. You gonna report me?” You snort. “I just got off work and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Do you do this for the wives of all your suspects?”

“This is the very first time.”

“Are you wearing a fucking wire or something?” You look him up and down, searching for any suspicious bulges or bumps, but he shakes his head no. You don't know why, but you believe him.

“Is this guy bothering you, Y/N?” the bartender asks, but you shake your head.

“He’s alright.”

“Where’s Ramsay?” The guy narrows his eyes. The wife of a made man doesn’t talk to just anyone without drawing attention, but if the bartender knows what's good for him, he won't tell Ramsay that he saw you chatting up a strange man. If he does talk, he's more than likely to get caught in the crossfire and wind up in the river by the end of the week.

“He’s still tied up at the station, I'll bet. They’ll have to cut him loose soon. They can’t hold him unless they’re going to arrest him.” The bartender nods and moves away to check on another patron, certain that he's spared his own skin. 

“So are you?” This guy is starting to get on your nerves. But he looks so sincere, his eyes large and dark and soft with something that doesn't quite stoop to the level of pity. It's more like compassion.

“What?”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” For a while, the both of you sit there in silence and drink. The detective appears to be gathering his courage. Finally, he speaks up.

“Do you want to go somewhere else and talk?”

“If you sleep with me, you’ll wind up dead,” you reply bluntly. You take a sip of your drink and look at him pointedly over the rim. 

“I don’t want to sleep with you." You cackle, just a little too loudly.

“What do you want, then?”

“To talk to you, I guess.”

“That’s a big risk just for a conversation.”

“I’ll take it.”

With a little more cajoling, you allow the cop walk you home. He's awfully forthcoming for someone who knows he's talking to a high-ranking mobster's wife. He tells you that he just moved here, that he doesn't know anyone, that he doesn't talk to his family anymore. He's new to the detective job and the more senior detectives shit all over him, spot him the impossible, futile cases. Like the Greyjoy case. You could use this information against him in any number of ways; when your husband gets home, you could laugh and sneer and tell him everything and give him all the ammunition he needs to make Detective Snow's life miserable. You could probably get his address out of him. His mother's maiden name. Anything. You have an opportunity to make yourself useful to the family.

But you won't.

You live in a nice neighborhood—Ramsay makes good money doing what he does. It's not a mansion, but it's a good size, and it's got everything you could ever want. The ceilings are high and the counter tops are marble. The dogs, a trio of perfectly-trained, genetically pure German Shepherds, growl when they smell a strange man, but you put them in their kennels with a bone each and it shuts them up pretty fast. You let the detective eat you out on your cream leather couch. He’s good at it. His pretty, pillowy lips look good latched on to your cunt, his tongue swirling in torturous little circles. It's alright that he lied about wanting to sleep with you. You can be a very forgiving person.

When he sits up, his mouth shining wet, you clamber onto his lap, but not before reaching down to snatch the gun from the holster still attached to his pants. You shove it up under his chin, where it digs into the bristles of his dark beard. There's a blip in his composure, a slight widening of the eyes, and it gives you a sick punch of satisfaction. With your free hand, you unzip his jeans.

“Are you gonna kill me?” He doesn’t lose his erection. That’s a good sign.

“Maybe.” You shrug, sticking your pinky finger in the corner of your mouth, contemplating the problem. “I haven’t decided yet.” You take him inside of you and immediately begin to ride hard, your rhythm sloppy, your eyes focused on the point where the metal of the weapon bites into his flesh. 

“What a way to die,” he chuckles, deep in his throat. You laugh too, but you don’t move the gun away. You click the safety off, and he lets out a breath. You giggle.

“This is going to feel like nothing if my husband comes home,” you whisper, widening your eyes dramatically.

“What would he do?”

“Beat you to death,” you say casually. “With his bare hands.” He flinches, but he keeps fucking you, running through this scenario like a fantasy. 

“That not enough danger for you?” he teases. You shake your head no, coy. With every movement of your body, the gun shifts; you grind the barrel into his skin, enjoying the the traces of fear on his stoic face.

“You’re lucky I don’t fucking end you, you fucking pig,” you say breezily. 

In a flash, he’s snatched the gun from your hand, flicked the safety on, and is holding it out of your reach. “I’ve had a lot of training,” he says smugly. You smile and grind down hard on his cock. You don’t mind being on the receiving end of some good old-fashioned violence. You wouldn't dish it out if you couldn't take it.

“Pistol-whip me,” you demand. He shakes his head.

“I’ll hurt you,” he protests. It’s your turn to shake your head. 

“No you won’t. Come on,” you pant. He shakes his head again, worrying at his lip with his teeth. You roll your eyes and climb off of him abruptly. You pad across the room to the bar and mix yourself a drink, perfectly naked. You leave him sitting on the couch, limply holding the gun, still hard. He watches you as you lean against the bar, sipping your drink. He doesn’t look like a statue anymore. He looks like a kicked puppy.

“What are you looking at with those sad eyes?” you ask, a little more harshly than you had intended. “I could be fucking anyone I wanted to right now. It didn’t have to be you.”

“I think it did,” he says, putting the gun aside. “Any one of those thugs you run around with could pistol-whip you. You didn't need me for that.”

“What _do_ I need you for then?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," he says, standing up, leaving the gun behind on the couch. He comes over to the bar and smooths your hair down your back with both hands, kisses your shoulders. You set your drink down on the bar and wrap your arms around his neck. He lifts your ass up onto the bar and slides into you again, setting a slow, gentle pace as he kisses you deeply, kisses you like he really loves you. Which, of course, he doesn’t. He’s got that policeman hero complex. He wants to save you from things you don’t need saving from. It makes you sad, to be fucked like this, all sweetness and closeness. It isn’t real. It can’t last. You feel tears budding in your eyes. You wrap your legs around his waist, knot your hand in his tousled hair, throw your head back, and come crying. 

*

The next morning, Ramsay wakes you up when he get into bed, still fully clothed, still in his boots. He smells stale, like no sleep and cigarettes.

“Bastards held me overnight,” he says, his voice ragged. “They can’t prove a fucking thing.” He laughs sharply. “What’d they ask you?” He runs his hand over your back, rough and possessive.

“The usual shit,” you say softly, a little muffled by your pillow. “What’s your husband do, who’s he know, what is he up to…”

“And I know my girl didn’t say a word.” You smile.

“Not a word.”


End file.
